


The Lovesong of Sherlock Holmes

by chucksauce



Category: Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T. S. Eliot, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Johnlock goggles optional, Poetry, Post-Reichenbach, the lovesong of j alfred prufrock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the room ‘Yarders come and go<br/>Anderson’s quite an idiot, you know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lovesong of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally for the Let's Draw Sherlock/Let's Write Sherlock classic challenge, although I'm just now posting it. Based on _"The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock"_ by T.S. Eliot. Original/Intact lines are bolded.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so please leave all kinds of comments and criticisms.

The Lovesong of Sherlock Holmes (An Apology)

 

**Let us go then, you and I,**

**When the evening is spread out against the sky**

Like hydrochloric acid upon our table;

Let us go through certain bustling, wild streets,

The inane little tweets

Of blind twitterers in lifeless blog story-tells

And cafes with barista’s smells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of unobservant intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…

**Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”**

Let us go and crime scene visit.

 

In the room ‘Yarders come and go

Anderson’s quite an idiot, you know.

 

The yellow paint that spreads its stripe across the picture frames,

The yellow spray that smears its face along the statues’ names

Spread its fumes into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon fingers that show their stains,

Hang bright upon the walls where a message remained,

Slipped by my notice, made a sudden leap,

Until seeing that it was obviously code readable by others,

Sank below a fresh cover of black-out, and fell asleep.

 

Once, I dreamed there would be a time

For the quiet war lurking on London’s streets,

Prowling with face hidden from camera frames;

There was time, there was time

To enjoy with you the dangers we would meet;

There was time to solve murders and create,

And time for all the sentiments of words and hands

That pose and answer a question to contemplate;

**And time yet for a hundred little indecisions**

**And for a hundred visions and revisions**

Before I last met with Moriarty.

 

In our flat, we come and go,

I always hoped for more time, you know. 

 

And indeed for you there will be time

To wonder, “Why did he delete the Solar system?”

Time to think back and study my hair,

With its curls so errant there--

(They will say: “How he admired him!”)

My Bellstaff coat, collar upturned mysteriously by my chin,

“I don’t wear neckties, I don’t need this tie pin--”

(Stop complaining: “But accept it with thanks and a grin!”)

Do I dare

Delete our little universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which new deductions will reverse.

 

For I have thought them all already, thought them all:

Have observed evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured your tea intake with dirty spoons;

I knew the voices carrying down my hall

Over the bustle of London’s loom.

So obviously I presume.

 

**And I have known the eyes already, known them all--**

The eyes that betray with a single gaze,

And when I was outsmarted, on the roof of St. Bart’s,

When I was trapped and calling from the wall,

Then how could I start

To explain the endgames of my enemy and me?

And how should I adieu?

 

And I have known your voice already, known it all--

Tones that are hoarse and tired and dull,

(But the bark of a captain, tried and full!)

Is it love that I detect

That makes me so defect?

A voice that whispers, or laughs down a hall.

And how should I resume?

And how should I return?

 

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk to clean the streets

And watched the spider’s web torn from its mortars

As operants die, pinned in their traps?…

 

I should have been a wilder man

Sailing across the waves of roaring blue seas.

 

You, John, afternoons and evenings sleep so fitfully

Drawn with fear, it lingers

PTSD… a dead-ringer,

Stretched on the sofa, here so formerly like me.

Should I, after cab and door and devices

**Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?**

But though I have fought and fasted, fought and parlayed,

Though I have seen my name (covered in mud) torn to tatters,

I am no idiot--and here’s some great matter;

**I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,**

And I have seen Richard Brook’s defendants smile and snicker,

 **And in short, I** am **afraid.**

 

**And would it have been worth it all, after all**

After the grave, the funeral, 221B,

Among the tears, our talk, and tea,

Would it have been worth while

**To have bitten off the matter with a smile,**

To have un-deleted the universe after all,

To find in it your overwhelming questions,

To say: “You believed in me, I came back from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”--

If you, settling your fiercest glare upon your head,

**Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;**

**That is not it, at all.”**

 

**And would it have been worth it, after all,**

**Would it have been worth while**

After the afternoon chases through battlefield streets,

After the weblogs, after the teacups, after the fangirls that trail along no more--

**And this, and so much more?--**

**It is impossible to say just what I mean!**

But if as a savant I find all the patterns and just what they mean:

**Would it have been worth while**

If you, stony-faced, shouldering off a brawl,

**And turning to the window, should say:**

**“That is not it at all,**

**That is not what I meant, at all.”**

 

No! I am no magician, though always meant to be;

Am an observant man, **one that will do,**

To find a tell-tale, uncover one or two,

Advise the D.I.; no doubt secret tool,

The Work, **glad to be of use** ,

Impolitic, zealous, and meticulous;

Full of high implication, but a bit obtuse;

At times, A Bit Not Good, ridiculous--

**Almost, at times, the Fool.**

 

You grow old… you grow old…

I shall follow wherever your path unrolls.

 

Shall I always lurk behind? Do I dare offer a speech?

 

I shall wear a blue cashmere scarf, and silently keep out of reach.

I have heard my detractors shouting, each to each.

 

I do not think they--or you--will forgive me.

 

I have seen them, vociferous in debate

Denying your claims with words so bitter and black

Despite the truths on your tongue you fight to bite back.

 

We have lingered in your heart in 221B,

In violin-song and fairy-lights soft and warm in impression,

Unless I destroy it, if I announce my confession.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy making friends with strangers on the internet. Come by and say hi!
> 
>   * [**My Fandom Tumblr**](http://chucksauce.tumblr.com) for all manner of crying about fictional characters and laughing at shitposts
>   * **[My Fic Rec Blog](http://spoilersauce.tumblr.com)** , if you're into multifandom recs.
>   * **[Under-London](http://under-london.com/)** , the original serialized novel I'm working on for cheap-as-free!
>   * **[My Twitter](http://twitter.com/chucksauce221)** , where I basically live when I'm not writing...
> 



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